The night we returned from the hospital, my mom asked if she could have a shower. During her entire hospital stay, the nurses only had time to give her one sponge bath (she was supposed to get a shower or sponge bath daily…). Before the surgery, I had gotten everything ready for this event. A shower chair, extra plastic mats, organic soap, even a long scrub brush. I also had our apartment professionally cleaned so it would be as sterile as possible. Only at the time, I didn’t think I would be coming home without professional help. We had asked again and again for a nurse or PSW (personal support worker) to come and help my mom at home, but quickly found out that the only patients in Canada that get any support – are palliative.
Be grateful your mom isn’t palliative, they told me.
I got the shower running, grabbed a couple fresh towels, clean pyjamas, as well as her favourite pair of extra-high hospital underpants (she couldn’t wear anything that didn’t go all the way up over her incision—which ruled out all her underwear).
If you need help—anything at all—just ask. I don’t care.
This will be fine. I repeated it in my head. My mother bathed me many times as a child. She took care of me. And now I have to take care of her. She needs me. I slumped down outside the bathroom door and listened as she stepped into the shower. Please don’t need help. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know if I can do this. My mind whirled. After about 10 minutes, the water stopped. She had finished! Relieved I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and started washing the dinner dishes.
Sarah – I need you.
My heart dropped. As I opened the door, I saw my mom was standing naked in the middle of the washroom. She was shaking. She was holding a towel, and looked upset.
I can’t dry myself. I can’t … bend. Or …
Her voice cracked. She was frustrated. This must be frustrating. I draped a towel over her shoulders for warmth, knelt on the floor, and then gently started to press a second towel against her legs. As I worked my way up, I fought the urge to cry. For all the time she was in the hospital, I guess I hadn’t really looked at her. But now, standing here in the washroom, I realized she barely looked like herself. She had bruises and small cuts all over her from the surgery and IV ports. Her belly was swollen from the surgery, but she had gotten so thin you could see her ribs sticking out of her chest. And she had so many bags under her eyes from not sleeping. She looked so vulnerable. I wanted to hug her and tell her it would be alright, but I didn’t know that … so I couldn’t bring myself to form the words. Instead, I grabbed her clothes and gave her a half-hearted smile.
Let’s get you dressed.
the pilgrim's daughter 